This tale comes from a book I have been writing
and in a constant struggle to amend and reinvent; it is about some young
children of the Mississippi Delta (the river itself the children believe
to be ‘Mrs. Sippy’s Delta’). Our scene is set on the river proper, as the
group of travelers come into the unfavorable architecture of a pentomino
raft, made totally from solidified bismuth, pfefferneusseum molecules and
scrap cardboard. Invaders deck the raft and begin sending pirate flags up
the makeshift flagpole, which was fashioned out of organic plutonium, an
old broom and rubber chicken wire.

“OUR
HOMUNCULUS ABROAD”
“Give my regards to the alembic.”
I LEMMINGS

“FUCK YOU ISHMAEL. Some tears ago--never mind
how far back they might be—having zero to nil in my purse, and nothing far
from vehicular to transport me once overboard, I thought I would set to
pout a spittle and soak in the watery heart of the world.” Pchooey! This
is what our captain, the esteemed Ducasse dictated to me as I attempted
to take notation though most of my time was spent wiping the spittle of
his impassioned speech from my face and arms. Ducasse stayed to the front
of our small pentomino raft-meanwhile me and the stowaway, Huckleberry Faust,
kept up the rear end, so as not to tip the boat—our esteemed Ducasse being
a total and complete Thunder Lizard. (With Primatic tendencies, of an all-consuming
frog-appetite behavior type—i.e. a totally ravenous glutton of a beached,
on our raft, whale, he was a whale; pure and simple.) There are his love
handles, there is his spout. Huckleberry (pronounced HUK-LAY-BREE) was poling
in a Venetian style, as if our raft were a goddamned gondola—smiling and
whistling all the while like a fucking mockingbird. But I never put stock
in fucking mockingbirds anyway. Ducasse calls me by my Christian name, Mimidae,
while our whistling inverted pole-vaulter calls me MIMI. I have no preferences
on this matter. The nefarious Ishmael is Ducasse’s aside, his footnote.
Ishmael was once a man, of that; I am sure, but next to our colleague, Mr.
Ducasse, he is a bipedal lamprey. I don’t watch them interacting with one
another for fear of vomiting in my young voyeuristic reposing disgust. The
same goes for Huckleberry, though he doesn’t gag as audibly as I do. Ho
hum. “KNOW, KNOW, KNOW YOUR BOAT GENTLY TOWARDS THE BRAIN, VERILY, VERILY,
LIFE IS BUT A MEME.” We drift in and out of daytime and nighttime we don’t
dream for fear of being killed in our sleep by Ducasse and his despicable
clownfish, Ishmael. All we risk is a daydream here and there; which all
turn into nightmares, quick as lightning; making it tenebristic gloomy,
powerful tenebristic gloomy. And he just continues dictating, his memoirs
(pronounced MEME WARS): “For a long time I used to sleep a lot, that is
I would endeavor to retire for the evening early. Sleeping was my pastime,
my narcoleptic business. And for a long time all I did was dream. Dream
of early retirement—the American dream of waking up a billionaire, without
being a fugitive from justice. At large in a world of small fishes—I retain
the most water. To the vacuum, go the spills.” “Raise the flag of the MORTAL
& PESTER,” quote the ravenous glutton-head, the beached whale. It was raised.
Upon the raising of this most curious Piratic flag, a change, subtle like
glissandoing impiety or grapefruit beer, in Huckleberry began to commence.
He clutched at his stomach and lowered his head moaning ever so like a dying
rabbit. At once he was running over the surface of the water and jumped
into the arms of a man who was wade fishing with his two children nearer
the bank. Huckleberry began cooing and purring, making as if to cuddle.
“Is your boy alright?” inquired the neo-pseudo-suckling fisherman. “Indeed
he is. Caught a bout of the Cucurbit Mosaic, though,” responded Ducasse
as he cast anchor starboard side. “Culture to a beck, what?” “Cucurbit Mosaic,
actually. He’s homunculizing as we speak, I’d step back sir,” Ducasse holed.
As Ducasse spoke these very words, a noise, deafening in its volume and
brain squeezing in subsonic force, exploded like a fart reaching critical
mass in our midst. It was in the rhythm of a nursing child complete with
delicate gulps for air coming from Huckleberry, as he was now open mouth
and teeth to the violently bleeding neck of the curious and inquisitive
fisherman. It sounded as if two low rider cars, with pounding woofers, were
‘bumping uglies’, pardon the expression, by the light of a recumbent moon.
Two low riders, intertwined, muffler to muffler, fucking to the gentle breezes
of the night trade winds and the ever genteel whispers of El Niño: (Foggy
windows, fuzzy dice and hydraulic drop top dash board plastic Jesai). He
with a tattoo of flames down his sides, orange, red and green; she with
a bumper sticker reading, “IN CASE OF RAPTURE, THIS CAR WILL BE UNMANNED.”
What a delicate drag race these automobilic fancies, be! Huckleberry however
imbibed nearly all the blood this poor fisherman had coursing through his
veins. He sprang out of his embrace. “Lower, the flag of the MORTAL & PESTER.”
“Huckleberry, a vampire?” I gasped. “Far from it my young Mimidae, that-there
is the early stages of homunculization. Vampires, feeding hours, are regulated
by the ever waxing and waning moon, that semi-luminous orbital. Spagyric
necronauts may feast by the lights of any hour.”

FROM
THE LIBRARY OF DEAD ZEAL:

After the flag was lowered and appropriately
folded, it was taken with quite the pomp and circumstance to the two surviving
children of our most recently dearly departed by Ishmael while Ducasse hummed
the National Anthem: “Insane in the meme-brain, that Swann’s birdly rights.
That our legs were nair hair.” In that vein it went and then Huckleberry
returned to poling as if nothing had occurred, and in fact he had no recollection
of those events when I asked him later over lime tea and cookies. Ducasse
continued his lurid and tumultuous dictation well into the night and the
next morning. I sat shivering, not daring to sleep and scribbling as fast
as I could to keep in pace with our fearless and ubiquitous orator. “You
don’t know me without you have read a book by the name of Mimus and Polyglottos,
but that ain’t no matter. That book was writ by Mr. Knecht Ruprecht, and
he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly
he told the truth.” -- Huckleberry Faust, Mrs. Sippy’s Delta, 2003

RECIPE
FOR THE WORLD’S BEST MUD PIE: EVER

Cancel
your subscriptions to any magazines that may make the monthly, weekly, bimonthly
or annual cycles to your house(s) right now! This is the best, goddamned
recipe for Mud Pie you will ever find! Take all. Enter the sandbox and wait
for a terrific excuse to blow up the spot. Add dirt. Eat with an apple.
Surely Sally sells seagulls down bye-bye birdie to, then before. And then
again, it really could be happening. Alien abduction is a pain in the dairy
airy, airy, airy air. To the sky, so easily and where the clouds can’t even
hide. I see you floating. Enter the spacecraft. So this is what aliens
look like, I was skeptically expecting non-anthropomorphic sentient creatures
of peace and knowledge. But now I know that the others were right. Fuck
Venus, dude. Mars, the bringer of meme-wars says, “I love you.” Words
of such great import that cupid shits itself when drunk on the winish distillation
of penultimate Angel hole Eros: H 2 (the Mother-fucking) O. Reasons
why Venus is better than Mars (as compiled by the sub-sub-librarian to the
great Martian corporation: Anal Probe, Inc.): 1. Women are ecclesiastically
more thoughtful in speech and appearance of character than are men.
2. Red is the color of some kidney beans and all Christmas stockings. True
love’s hair. 3. Men don’t look that great in the sheep’s clothing of
ironic discourse. No, really? 4. Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches
are not the same thing, in much the same way that alpha-male is an oxymoron.

4 martians are from venus at hotmail dot com

Listen,
as one of your kind, I would just like to say, “What the fuck?” Ennui,
go, over the rainbow, somehow. “Boo boo boo boob oooboooboobooboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboooboo.”
The ghosts that haunt the stairways and biways of the attic of your
mind, they lyin’, sleeps tonight. The man behind the couch says keep
it real and all you can do is express yourself like a lemon peel like
shrimp. Do it your self. GIVE UP THE GHOST, WILL ‘YA? >> Martian Fubar:
CANDY
ASS ANAL
PROBES ALL.

VARIOUS
NOTES FROM A RANDOM WAITING ROOM IN NORTH-AMERICA:

Somewhere
under the Brooklyn bridge./// not trolls, Lilliputians, nor Extra-terrestrials.))))////(((((
A different shade of breakfast: let them squeak brakes. It came one
night from the bathroom mirror. I mean window. It came into the bedroom
and took him right up and out off the bed leaving her in a state of
disbelief. She would talk, never again, forever. He returns from a
brisk trip to Alpha-Centauri. No X-Mass presents though, all the way
to the other side of the galaxy and not even a lousy Tea Party. From
demons, to goblins, to angels, to Martians, you know little green
men. Not environmentalists, their skins be green. Why do we never
speak of little green women, for surely races of more than at least
one gender patrol the far reaches of outer space. What if there was
a race, of extra-terrestrials, with no less than 203 genders among
themselves? What if it did not seem unreasonable to spin a space yarn
of ‘little green women.)))))))) =THE SUMPTUOUS AND EXAGERATTED TALE
OF LITTLE GREEN WOMEN.== X marks the spot.

1:
“GREMLINS WON’T BE GREMLINS WITHOUT ANY PRESENCE,” grumbled Jo, playing
with the pug. Wing dwellers, the proverbial aerodynamonauts nightmares
and Christmases are made of. “Divine intervention is a sometime thing
from outer space.” She said, and not too suddenly. It is inconceivable
to believe too far into Outer Space. “Tufk, tufky, toorah.” Outer,
O, Out there, “forgive the interruption, pardon the intrusion, may
I borrow a cup of sugar, some flour and an anise probe (bulb) for
the flying saucer (of milk maybe), I said, me and the old man are
going to Outer Space for a little experimental vacation. We ain’t
gonna be sleeping in those muddy cages this time though, we’re going
as ambassadors for this spaceship Earth. This wayward vessel.” 2:
Too sweet for this world. Spending the late nights and early morning
hours of life writing horror novels about sinister monsters of who
travel with the wind and drink the blood from farm animals and little
children who don’t obey their parents. She obsessed a mountain of
despair into the pudding-like Neanderthal mind(s) of the other captives,
cuddling in the spoon position. And in that corner of the mind say
eye and/or cage, that is the frames of the ship, sleeping, now at
least forever and a day. Amen. 3: Our MAIDEN VOYAGE, to an interplanetary
system caddy-corner to the Mandrake event horizon, over yonder, went
according to schedule. 4: DAY ONE: Turbulence. By night I sit and
look out of my window. The air is thick with heat and the crew is
beginning to get restless. I fear mutiny. My suspicions were confirmed
earlier this evening, and I say evening on a guess, time is meaningless
here. Three more days of this rather opalescent journey then, there,
will be no more fears of an on board uprising. Our navigator, Dr.
Huckleberry Faust says, “Non-butt, our shelves, can see our behinds.”
He may be on that plank to the 4th dimension very soon. Mornings aboard
this ship bring toast and eggs, mostly desirable, mostly edible. We
steady and await further instructions. 5: DAY TWO: Rain. Us girls
stayed to the main hull today discussing our favorite passages from
the Sci-Fi Sub-Sub-Book of the Dead. This as we drank quite remarkable
and memorable lime tea and ate cucumber sandwiches; as has been our
custom every Sundae since my birth; I being the youngest of the four
children. My name is, either: Meg, Jo, Beth or Amy, I never remember;
this week I am calling myself Meg. Beth called me Jo this morning
and Jo had to remind her that I was Meg; which confused her because
Amy was calling herself Meg this morning while they were brushing
their teeth. She thinks she owns everything. As it happens we do speak
Farcey rather well, for it not being our native tongue. Our Farcey
instructor says we have Ergospheric accents, when speaking Farcey;
which coincidentally will be to our benefit since the natives of the
Mandrake E.H., speak Farcey with a bit of a lisp and pinch of salt.
Inconsistent Trans-chaotic Metaphors of Indeterminate, Specificity,
libel the pug. Specifically, the Itch, the Rash and Toe Jam. 6: DAY
THREE: X-Mass. X-Morning. We made our way down the stairs for Christmas
breakfast. What a wonder it was to see all those sausages splayed
about amongst the breads and butters, jams and royal jellies. It was
bliss, I tell you, impermanent and most wondrous bliss. The galley
was filled with the screams of darker skinned types of whom we are
selling to the Father-ship in the Mandrake event horizon. Actually,
we aren’t selling them; we are a liberal and pious family, who do
not believe in slavery, we sell fruits and vegetables, things of splendid
green, not damned pink. The slaves are sold by weight by the life
insurance agents who represent the remaining Americans from the old
planet: Earthy worth. Jo said, “Maybe the slaves down in the galley
want our bread.” And they did, too. 7: DAY FOUR: 4:20 AM. Huckleberry
has freed the slaves, damn his soul-less eyes. Set them loose in Outer
Space. We arrive, unscathed, passing thru the great gates of ‘ourladyofthepulsarversusourladyoftheneutrinostar’…we
arrive safe and soundlessly; as sound does not, truly travel in the
blackness of space, proper. 8: DAY FIVE: On the long ride over Lakshmi
Planum we arrive at the final resting-place of the ‘VENUS of PHOBOS’,
in Ishtar Terra. Near Walden Pond, where we keep winter quarters.
Mother goes out and does Henry’s wash every week in hopes of keeping
his (distilled) spirits up. On a planet where none but women are revered?
Not a fucking chance, you testicle garnished asshole. On Walden Pond
the little green women still do the clothes. By the way, why Ishtar
that there be green inhabitants on Mars? Why the complimentary color
of the inhabitants to the planet? By this logic, Earthlings need be
orange and some are, trust me on this one Cisco, you little, green
jug. Orange U glad, hole? On a yellow planet, purple people eaters?
Not a fucking chance, boy. 9: DAY SIX: Wholesome family goodness,
frock! One of us was to die today, Jo Beth, I presume. The doctor,
being a man and full of wisdom that excludes knowing how to wash clothes,
began bleeding her at the elbows. She was nearer to dying than the
Barom Samdi’s bride on their honeymoons over Miami, Florida, 4:29
A.M. 10: DAY SEVEN: Aboard the Mother Ship. We were abducted last
night in our dreams. “God bless us, everyone!” she is screaming it,
haiku style, eternal night, a thousand and one anal probe knights.
They have us in our paces, we are fed through slots and under doors;
we sleep huddled together, drinking wine from the same jug, swapping
germs, a regular German swap meet (swamp meat). (Laying in our own
filth and grumbling lyrically in the cold dark air.) “God bless us,
everyone, goddamn it!” God bless U.S.; every war. Darker then that
and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Grow corn in the cold to catch
it and keep it in ajar. Stomach grown candy corn of the mighty delta.
Animals in cages go crazy. Dogs on leashes are not friendly, are they
not? Shit, everywhere and tomorrow is shit, retched, fetid shit. God
bless, that: Like this and like that and uh…ugh, ugh. Yea-ah boy-ee!
“This shit isn’t scaring me you dumb ass little red mother-ship-fuckers!”
One brave young woman announced, most desperately. “Sure it does.”
Over the loud speaker, with almost a Farcey accent, “it scares the
shit out of you.”

PART
SECOND: COURTESANS, ALL, ABROAD ON THE MOTHERSHIP

The
courtesans sit round the elongated tableaux: Essex and Langenberry
side, in ad side; fucking, sequentially. The outrager spat, Huckleberry-Esque
of the mid-milky way stew. In an elevator booth, perfect for appropriating
and appropriate for perfecting an over-piracy; these high-space outlaw(s),
schemes of courting “love”…in a fallen sense: the deity reigns. At
supper: “Arse those sausages?!!1, Real live sausages?!!!” “Indeed
they are madam (e); ouiselle…they are indeed sausages>…” “Isn’t Butter
on fresh bread the most divine of all! And on an X-Mass, 2!” Divination
through buttering bread; i.e. reading butter on bread to predict the
future: butyrumancy

{The Butyrumancer speaks: “You have buttered your bed, now divinate
with it.””””””””””””} The religion, or spiritual practice, corresponding
to Butyrumancy, involves a churning ceremony incorporating up to 385
persons (alive and dead), the prayer and dance of ‘Virgin Emulsification’
and a sacrament of, you guessed it: bread and butter. The reason humans
say, “bread and butter” when keeping together, though taking alternate
routes has its roots in butyrumancy. Like this, say: a young married
couple is walking downtown and they are walking on 5th street together,
holding hands, and all…they happen upon a telephone pole. Now, they
do not want to break hand-lock, nor do they wish to reduce the speed
of their stroll, so they temporarily release hands as they pass around
the telephone pole, saying “bread and butter”, so as not to lose contact
spiritually. Thus preventing an almost certain fate of hell and eternal
torture for not holding hands correctly on the goddamn Sabbath. Butyrumancer
parlance: “{better, butter, batter, hey batter, swing butter.}” There
were several practices by butyrumancers that the rest of society,
for some god-forsaken reason, found unsuitable and unlawful. The first
of these was the making of dairy products, not from cow or goat milk
but from ‘the milk of man’; that is the milk of WOMAN (butyrumancy
was begun in the eras of the over-masculinization of anything and
everything not considered woman’s work.)

The Star Stuff Chalk Circle

From
THE FIRST EPISTLE OF TOM THUMBELLINA:

“THOU
SHALT NEVER, HENCEFORTH AND FOREVER, CREATE, OR FASHION, IN ANY WAY,
PRODUCTS OF DAIRY FROM ANY BEAST LESS NOBLE THAN MAN. THE MILK OF
MAN BE ALL THY DRINK OR ELSE THEIR BE FAMINE AND DAMNED BEASTIALITY
IN THE LAND OF MILK AND HONEY. AS SUCH THE MILK OF THE VIRGIN (ULTRA-LACTATA)
IS THE MOST DIVINE OF ALL.” Just between you and me they milk them
like cows, twenty virgins (their version of a nunnery) all lined up
in troughs with antibiotic drips and suction machines on their breasts,
fucking wrong. Cheese made from the breast of man (although men, for
the most part, do not lactate) is called: tyroshomo, which roughly
translates as: ‘human cheese’. There were several different ways of
preparing and curing the tyroshomo; the most popular of which were
a type of feta-style cheese (eagle’s ember) and a sub-sub-type of
blue cheese (our rubber).

The Tyroshomo
Drive-Thru on a Drunk Dial

In the religion, proper; there are many bizarre stories involving
milk, such as the tales of ‘LACTATA’, or spontaneous lactation of
the super-devout, mostly from their ears, eyes, nipples, noses, and
mouths; almost always accompanied by sexual orgasm. The story of Venus
of Phobos, the mystical progenitor of SWEET CREAM, or their messiah,
a kindly child who, “drank not of the milk, from the mammary glands
of man’s breast; but partook of the milk, of God’s mind. A milk more
fortified with vitamins and minerals than any mammal of the ground
may concoct within the cavities and glands of the their animate temples.”
He was born to a virgin named Mary, who actually didn’t birth him,
since Mary was a man; but that is how the story went. I suppose part
of the miracle of his birth was focused around how a man can give
a ‘virgin birth’. Mary also sprouted “the blessed tits of wonder and
joy that wrung forth the holy milk of God’s holy mind-tit; which was
good like sunlight and thick as emulsified cream.” He died a most
horrible death at the hands of his oppressors, the ‘Cattlemen’…they
“churned this mother out”, that is they churned him to death in a
public venue, and after he died they covered him with whipped cream
“from the cursed udder of bovine subterfuge” and a cherry. (Representing
blood of the golden calf and color it should be served at). He lay
there for three days until people got sick of the smell (The lactose
intolerant.) Our Mean Mister Magus did not rise again; he rotted like
everything else. One can easily understand the taboo, it is sort of
strange that we only drink the milk from other mammals. Other mammals
whose bodies only make the milk for their young. Butyrumancers saw
milk from the human breast as prayer, as communication with their
god. They saw taking milk from other mammals as an act of beastiality.
“Human milk be beatific liquid.” Or so they say. On the other hand
early cults of this religion also practiced a form of cannibalism
that mimed Hassidic Kosher standards: “the eating and partaking of
the flesh and fat of Man is proper in the context of the sacred feast
of the Lunar Eclipse. But the preparations of such things shall never
involve the combination of the flesh of Man and the milk of Man. Let
not the child be cooked in the milk of the mother.” So, they could
eat human flesh and drink human milk and/or eat tyroshomo, but never
together: no tyroshomo cheeseburgers, in a manner of speaking. {All
quotes from THE FIRST EPISTLE OF TOM THUMBELLINA.}

THE
POSSIBLE CONCOCTED AUSPICES OF EPOH GNIRB:

1) She went back to school and became an astronaut. 2) She faked her
own death to avoid obscurity as an unrecognized genius. 3) She is
now a proprietor of a coffee shop named Latte Freakin’ Da. 4) She
makes pornographic films under assumed names like Hannah Faster. 5)
She went home and no-body noticed because she does not answer the
phone or her door and subsides off of rainwater and the mites that
live on her eyelashes. 6) She was surfing and found Laputa or Lilliput
and has not returned yet from her travels. 7) She lost track of time
and died of old age before her time. #) She is the reincarnation of
Pythagoras, she realized this and formed a cult based on ‘free love
and the . semi-non-organic shapes that clouds make’. 8) She found
a black hole in the Sea of Norway, went through it and came out of
the other side reassembled into a leather bound edition of the complete
works of Marcel Proust; just like Stephen Hawking predicted would
happen. 9) You are Epoh Gnirb. 10) She became a figment of somebody
else’s imagination besides the image you hold of what you believe
her to look like in your mind at this very moment. 11) She works at
a wax museum as an ‘Events Coordinator’ named Cassandra.

Baalerina
& Sal Ammonia, Abducted:
“OUR RUBBER ABROAD” PLATE ELEVEN

The Ballad of Baalerina and Sal Ammonia begins in a waiting room.
There is a gray carpet and some army green wallpaper that has
been in the process of peeling off the wall for probably two years.
Sal Ammonia stands next to coffeepot, which he calls the ‘cucurbit’.
Noticing Baalerina standing near the donuts he offers her a cup,
“May I get you a cup of this delicious black hole juice? It’s
freshly squeezed!” She just nods and grabs herself a crueler.
“You see, I call coffee, black hole juice, because when it percolates,
it is dripping from a funnel in the shape of a singularity into
a reversed image of that same funnel. (…) Well, it would seem
to be a good example of what it may taste like to fall through
a black hole; do you believe in black holes?” “I thought scientists
have already proven their existence,” Baalerina, knowing more
than him. “Well, I simply meant that there may be religious or
spiritual implications from black holes.” “Like what a new version
of the Vedic Scriptures are going to fall through one?” “I guess
I was speaking more philosophically, what IMPLICATIONS may be
made from a universe where gravity can suck things away forever
and all, makes one wonder if it may be a literal HELL HOLE.” “I
don’t think so.” AUTHOR’S MAXIMIZING EXPLANATION OF PLATE ELEVEN:
The contents of the cucurbit have now reached a point of the deepest
depths of a bottomless photon bucket. There is no more energy
to borrow to make the light. There is only black hole radiation,
the universe is crumbling at the speed of a cockroach in heat,
when it reaches the other side, all will be for not. Sal Ammonia
and Baalerina are two wanderers that did happen to become abducted
and while aboard the ship, fall through a black hole. Metaphorically,
of course, for they are stories told by butyrumancers…they are
characters in their holy tales; they are the PSYCHO-POMPS OF A
NEW GENERATION. The rest of the parable is about Baalerina’s brilliant
idea on how to survive falling through the black hole: OUR RUBBER.
She jimmied a ‘condom-a-ton device’ out of virgin’s milk, she
wove this together with Sal Ammonia’s rather obscene armpit hair
into super strings and knitted these into a wet blanket par excellence.
Hence the legendary ‘WET BLANKET OF BAALERINA’ or ‘OUR RUBBER’.
Their seed was spared from death in the white hole and they lived
to butter another day.

VOYAGE
TO EPOHDUNGNIRB

ANAMNESIS ON THE FURIOUS VESSEL KNOWN, NON-LOCALLY, AS THE ‘SUB-HOMINO
RAFT’ AND ITS CREW: BAD INFINITUM; THE GENUFLECTORS OF FEAR, SONS
OF NEITHER ETHER NOR EITHER AND PROTECTORS OF THE HIDDEN INTEGER

PRIMUM MOBILE

HENRY
AVERY, LORD OF THE KEYS TO ZERO-HOOD, (ESQ.); swabs the deck of the
awe-inspiring ‘Sub-Homino Raft’ made exclusively from an arcanum of
human portions; literal flotsam. This raft, a floating hyper-bower
of pedantic gore, sails westward like a delinquent sun from the universe’s
kung-fu grip of saltwater and nitrogen. Dogs are not stowing away;
neither are the seagulls that avoid the raft as a nun would a bad
habit. Smoking a cigarette, rolled from the skin of a rattlesnake,
Henry Avery looked out over the flat ocean world surrounding--it would
seem--the whole cosmos, and remembers quite synchronically, before
the Fludd; before the rivers of boiling blood and piss and shit pockmarked
the world like wafers in a lily pond. Before the end was the middle,
and before that, something a bit more profound and reveling about
our rocking chair Earth. Something that not even uttered under one’s
breath meant much of nothing at all: it was the last thought Henry
Avery thought before life in the coke-bottle recesses of his personal
savior’s mindless soul cogitated the equilibrium of our watery planet
goodbye. He thought, “Why come I can’t remember what I can’t think
of a forehand?” It was more true than beautiful, and less interesting
than specifically radical, as a simple and pure thought: the putridity
of the raft floating up and through his nostrils, up into the deepest
secrets of his brain. Henry wept for several hours after, held aloof
by visions of an arbitrary spissatus, the cirrus of his dreams.

They
were sleeping in their bedroom and then he just vanished…disappeared.
Like that. Mr. God: Look what I just abducted Mrs. God! Mrs. God:
Oh, you don’t know were that thing has been, just wash it before you
bring it in. Mr. God: I sanitized it before I took it out of its sleeping
bag on earth. It’s fine. Just get those enclosures ready. This one
is going to make it I think. Like Moses, then we’ll just send it back
home like nothing happened. I want some water, caviar and the divine
probing unit. Mrs. God: As you wish, lord up above. Mr. God: Just
get my equipment ready, we have a long night of tedious experimenting
to do. Mrs. God: I’ll put a pot of black hole juice on the boil. Mr.
God: Here. (Putting the human in the enclosure.) Now administer the
holy anal probe. Mrs. God: Where are the assholes on these creatures
again? I swear I never can remember. That obsession you have for putting
so many openings and orifices on things. Do you know any other gods
that waste so much time on openings? Mr. God: There, on the backside
towards the top of the legs. Go slow at first, then just glide along
gently, we don’t want to break any more than absolutely necessary.
Mrs. God: Administering the sacred anal probe of Jahweh! Mr. God:
Amen to that my dear. Hold it, let me take readings, got to get these
calculations spot on, if in you know what I mean! Mrs. God: You are
such a rotten old meme-plex, god, how did I ever let you out of the
bedroom long enough to create the earth, in what was it, seven days?
Mr. God: Just kiss me while you calibrate that ass my dear. (The anal
probe was administered.) Now, young human, look at me. Let me see
those teeth. Yes, you should go see a dentist. How do you ever expect
to mate with a mouth like that? Now, seriously, I want you, when I
take you back to earth, to tell every one on the planet about me.
Tell them how wonderful and loving and devoted I am. Tell them my
love is infinite and that they are worthless compared to their benevolent
creator. Tell them to prostrate themselves, everyday, as an offering
of their dignity and pride and rationality. Every day! Tell them to
do this, for my wrath is awesome. Tell them the apocalypse is coming
and that I have a holy army of winged motherfuckers with anal probes
and 666 stickers, yo-yos and flaming swords of truth. Ready to get
a little mean. Put the Dr. Funk and Stein back up their rectal pies.
Turn this little bitch into a backyard BBQ. Tell them that the message
I bring is one of love, unless they don’t believe you, then my message
is one of death, and total, absolute genocide. I am peace. I am charity.
I am love, manifestering. Mrs. God: Hallelujah! The voice of the one
true god! Praise Sal Ammonia! Mr. God: I told you never to say his
name around me again. He does not exist to me anymore. Mrs. God: He
is your son! Mr. God: No son of mine would go around the universe
wearing his mother’s underwear and saying that he has come to rid
the cosmos of unnecessary orifices. The human: A salmon did what now?
Mr. God: Silence! (Mr. God pushes the anal probe a little deeper into
the human. He falls asleep.) Mrs. God: Careful honey-balls, he is
only a human! Mr. God: Why does he do it? Mrs. God: He’s probably
a little scared and confused and wants to be back on earth…oh, right,
well. The chosen one loves you and he is doing what he feels is right.
Mr. God: I never should have slept with her. Mrs. God: It was an experiment.
How were you to know that mating was possible? Now we know to use
anal probes instead. I mean we got to get the data from them somehow.
Mr. God: I didn’t love her. I was thinking of you the whole time.
It was an experiment. I was harvesting data from her rectal pie. I
was a true professional the whole time. I promise. Mrs. God: You know
I performed an experiment or two on her myself, back in the day. Mr.
God: You didn’t! You little fox! Well… Mrs. God: I was young and going
through a really experimental time and wanted some answers to questions
about certain feelings I had. I saw young Mary, when you had her in
the enclosure, performing your first round of experiments on humans
from earth. She saw me and told me she would do anything if I would
help her escape. She was so beautiful, and vivacious, I just couldn’t
resist. Mr. God: What do you say, if we drop this earthling back on
it’s rock and go neck in the back of our spaceship; maybe I’ll show
you my divining rod and matching anal probe? Mrs. God: Mr. God, you
dog, you!